For the Pikes Must be Together
by CBK1000
Summary: 'On 6 October 2156, the United States Army of Humanity breeches the walls of Dontilia City with blazing turrets and thundering cannons. But you can stomp, and stomp, and never hold a people down.' Open revolt between vampires and humans threatens everything Caroline Forbes has left to care about. Klaroline


**A/N: Ok, so I've been meaning to post this for a while, but a combination of laziness/censorship wariness has sort of stayed my hand, so here we are months later with me only just now getting around to it. **

**I wrote this basically in celebration of my thousandth tumblr post, and because I promised my followers some smut. It was just supposed to be a small drabble of pure sexytimes between Klaus and Caroline, but I'm a total plot ho-bag, so that didn't happen. I tried, guys, I really did. Apparently I'm just not very good at writing porn.  
**

**The futuristic aspect of this was inspired by _Mass Effect_, which I'd been playing prior to sitting down and writing this. Hope you enjoy, if you missed this the first time around on tumblr. **

**Title is a line from an Irish rebel song called 'The Rising of the Moon'. **

* * *

**Vampire Colony of Na Daoine**

**Mars**

**2156**

On 6 October 2156, the United States Army of Humanity breeches the walls of Dontilia City with blazing turrets and thundering cannons, their armored troops in a river through the gaps, automatics rattling, helmets flashing, boots clanging.

The hot Martian dust trickles in a thin cinnamon fog behind them, the sky a hive, the dropships and single-man fighters breathing their white oven exhales, the ground soldiers in their A30 hardsuits firing flawlessly coordinated volleys.

They leapfrog onward, here a regiment, there a brigade.

In their suits they are nearly machines, impenetrable even by those centuries-old fingers against which they struggle, their helmets indestructible, their chest pieces unyielding.

They are things of the laboratory, cloned bones, synthetic flesh, altered abilities, men with the speed of monsters: they close fissures in seconds, sew up holes in a blink, one man hurdling another, his gun chattering, his helmet gonging.

Only a careful bullet may pierce their ranks.

The colony obliges.

Their ammo is inferior, their fighters untrained, but this is their goddamned _home_, and they will not yield it, not without a goddamned _fight_, so here you are, humans, here is your technology turned back on you and your own machinery set against you; how does it _feel _to be hosed down, ground into the dust, flung facedown into the blood and the brains and the bowels-

300 rebels are slaughtered.

They gush forward with a roar and are turned back with screams.

We have taken the city, General McDownen declares to the holorecorders thrust forward in eagerly sweating hands.

We are implementing martial law.

Midnight curfew; weapons prohibited; derisive or incendiary speech forbidden.

All dissenters will be executed.

But you can stomp, and stomp, and never hold a people down.

* * *

The HoloNet is ablaze:

"We are receiving reports of the disappearance of human patrols in the Underlevels-"

"Friday marked the assassination of Lieutenant Kaidan Bowser by unknown assailants-"

"A recent rash of violence in the Financial District makes this the third in a series of attacks which have now resulted in the deaths of a dozen Marines-"

"The Underlevels of the city were again under siege by unidentified assailants who ambushed a squad sent to investigate the disappearance of one of the patrols, killing all but three-"

"It is thought that the recent murders of human soldiers in the Wards have been committed by a small ambush party consisting of perhaps half a dozen or so resistors-"

* * *

Here is what your history books never tell you, mates:

The textbooks go to the victor, yes of course, but the _story_- that lies with the downtrodden, that feeble underdog of the subjugated.

* * *

She puts a bounce in her step.

The trick to doing this is to go about it in an unobtrusive way, to make the movement of your breasts into a natural thing: the flash of stomach skin, the commercial tossing of the hair- you sew these together into something seamless, genuine, unaffected.

And then you smile.

She was Miss Mystic Falls 146 years ago, and you better damn well believe she still knows how to work it.

The Underlevels are a place of anarchy: shuddering lights, darting shadows, cordwood bodies, half a dozen different gangs on the prowl, a sentry at every corner, and she walks cautiously, eyes alert, ears open, the corridor down which she stalks an assault on her supernatural senses.

The floor echoes beneath her shoes; the walls reek; the corners lunge from nowhere.

The darkness is a cowl over her eyes.

At the final bend in the corridor one of the human sentries shines a light into her eyes and demands to know where she is going.

She leans her shoulder against the wall and she does not wave the light from her eyes.

She smiles her mega-brilliant Trident vote-for-me smile, and she waits.

A wait with half a dozen muzzles in your gut is always twice as long.

You draw in only so many breaths, counting each of them, stretching them out, making them last, and you rub your hands surreptitiously down your jeans and you pray so freaking _hard _that today is not the day he is late, held up, lying injured somewhere down the corridor, hair mussed, lungs bubbling-

And then beyond their shoulders, there is a flash.

He is a century older now, and even faster.

In 2140 scientist Malcolm Greenberg made a sudden breakthrough on the duplication of the solitary white oak stake left over from the Mystic Falls Revolution, and three years later the United States began to mass-produce ammunition from these lab-manufactured copies, bringing to a head tensions between the human and vampire races.

So he is careful to twist their guns away first, wrest them from gloved fingers and off armored-shoulders, and now as he works she curls her shiny pink-painted nails into a fist and she launches this tiny little weapon into the throat of the man nearest her, jerks him to her, sinks her fangs with a hiss into his unprotected throat, tosses him aside, reaches for the next-

Klaus snaps a neck, breaks a kneecap, rips away a chest piece.

You can break every bone in your hand in the attempt, but you can't punch through armor like this.

But with helmets unwisely off, there is a slight vulnerability, that gleaming curve between neck and collarbone, a little gap down which you can fit a hand, and with the strength of 1150 years behind him he can rip this easily away, tear chest piece from back plate, thrust his hand through flimsy cartilage, frail bone, squeeze the heart, tear the lungs, and all of these things he does with their blood in a hot wet mist around her, smile on his face, lift in his eyebrow-

The last he leaves wounded on the metal corridor beneath them, his comrade's heart in his palm.

The kid scrabbles away on frantic hands, his boots propelling him along on his ass, his hands feeling blindly along behind him, his throat flexing, chest heaving-

Klaus drops the heart and motions grandly toward her. "My name is Klaus. I presume you've already met my wife?"

He always needs them to know his name before they die.

She rests her hand on his shoulder.

He dips his head down with a smile to suck the blood from her fingers, and then he is on the kid in a blink.

* * *

The general with his receding hairline and his cap tilted so imperiously is next.

Caroline protests of course- the offices are too hard to penetrate, an escape too unlikely, their flight impeded by at least two barricades, one squad, any number of traitorous workers desperate for their own reprieve, but when he tries to leave her behind, he is rewarded with that look.

She cannot yet boast a century and a half and how easily she cuts him with those eyes.

He relents.

They instead snatch two young soldiers from the back room of the Lucky Dice, and he treats her to a drink afterward with the little blonde one's blood still hot on his tongue.

She drinks it with her hand high on his thigh.

* * *

You can't imagine the high.

Over a century ago, she was so tightly frigging wound, strictly vegetarian, slayer of bunnies, conqueror of deer, but in 145 years she has learned a thing or two about letting go, cutting loose, and so when Klaus wounds one of the assholes who killed so many of her friends three weeks ago when the army stormed the walls of her home, she finishes him off without guilt.

She lets her eyes roll back and her lips gape just a little, moan in her throat, heat between her legs.

He leans in to taste her.

She runs her hands up under his shirt to find his nipples, tweaks them playfully, pulls backs with a little smile.

He'll pay her back later, his eyes tell her.

* * *

When he proposed in 2036, his hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the little black box he held wordlessly out for her to take.

He did not expect a yes.

For centuries he was turned away, beaten down by his father's words, his mother's denunciation, his siblings' scorn, and so with tight throat and hopeless heart he held out that box, and he waited for it to be knocked away.

And then the fire in her cheeks.

The matching spark in her eyes.

She threw herself into his arms so hard she nearly sent him reeling, and he spent the next minute trying to maneuver the ring onto her finger with her legs round his waist and her lips breathlessly crushing his own.

He still smiles helplessly when he thinks of it.

He has loved her with unwavering devotion for 143 years, and so when their Saturday night dinner is interrupted by soldiers with revenge in their hearts and guns in their hands, he overturns the table he had to reserve two weeks in advance, and he shields her behind it as they open fire.

For their friends and their brothers, these men with shielded eyes and gloved hands declare.

They leave behind thirty dead.

He took a back full of shrapnel for her, and lies wheezing on the stained carpet.

She yells at him, of course, but her eyes glow and her hands shake, and though the pain is excruciating, the venomous wood in little slivers round his heart, all of him writhing, his fingers twitching, his brow sweating, what makes its way through his chest and wraps itself round his stomach is only the relief that it is him and not her in spreading red on this carpet, the ceiling swimming above him, the walls telescoping around him.

Twenty years ago, he had himself unlinked from his bloodline by a rather magnificent witch, another Bennett descendant more powerful even than Caroline's plucky little human friend.

He doesn't give a bloody damn about any of the rest, but her-

Her he will always protect.

* * *

The humans carry on with their reprisals.

Two of you for every one of us, they declare.

On the couch in the living room of their apartment, she lies beside him with head on his bare chest, hands tucked beneath her cheek, and she wants to know what they're going to do now.

Keep up the pressure, of course, love, he tells her, but what about the collateral damage- there aren't just buildings to be destroyed, halls collapsed, bars set to flame, but families who _love _each other, who were trying to live in peace- how do you look them in the eye and tell them sorry, the fight is more important, we know you're hurting, but just hold on a little bit longer and maybe when this is all through you'll still be alive but hey, no promises-

Caroline, he interrupts with a little smile, and he rolls over to lie stretched out on top of her.

He kisses the corner of her mouth.

Don't worry, he tells her.

Never worry, he assures her, but he can't guarantee anything- they have weapons that could take him away too, and forty years ago when they lost Stefan to an ambush she thought that was it, there was her freaking limit, but him, God, _him_-

He kisses her gently, brushes the curls back out of her eyes even more gently.

He always holds her like he's afraid she will try and get away.

She shuts her eyes, and she feels his forehead against the hollow of her throat and his fresh Irish Spring hair in her nose, and tonight she does not try to unbuckle his pants or slide down her own.

Tonight, she holds him back the same way, and she drifts fitfully off to sleep like this, surrounded in his scent.

* * *

Three days later he takes two of the grenades he appropriated from one of their victims, and he palms them beneath the cover of his pulled-down jacket sleeve and he hurls them in a flash into the main square on Level One, right into the whole bloody lot of them.

She is not with him this time.

He barely makes it out.

They have been upgraded impressively, these little humans, and the best of them is nearly as fast as him, and more durable.

The boy seizes him by the jacket, whips him round into one of the pillars, and then his three surviving comrades turn, and they open fire just as he throws himself over the railing.

Like a stone he drops, jacket rippling, arms up over his face, the bullets thundering all around him, glass shattering, bystanders screaming-

He snaps his left shin when he lands.

He does not wait for it to heal before fleeing away into the crowd.

* * *

He brings one home for her.

The kid's good.

He knows nothing, they have no weak points, General McDownen is untouchable, etc. etc.

She cracks her neck, her knuckles.

Honey, brace him, would you?

This is going to hurt.

* * *

There's this rush she gets, from killing.

She used to wonder what her mother would think about this little tugging in her stomach, this bubbling in her chest, the way she rolls her meal around in her mouth with a little flick of the tongue, identifying all the little subtle nuances of it, here a hint of cigar, there a taste of black-market stim.

But her mother died over a century ago, and she had to figure out how to go on.

Maybe you stopped but the world did not, Mommy, and your little girl- she's not this harmless little pigtailed angel in her ballerina slippers and her princess sash.

She had to adapt.

She hopes you still love her anyway.

Funny thing is, he never ridicules her for this.

But then, he never stopped caring what his mother thought either.

* * *

When they kill together it is almost a sexual experience.

They stalk a soldier home to his temporary lodgings and burst through the door after his light is off, his armor peeled away.

Klaus snatches him by the neck.

She tears into his right shoulder, Klaus his left.

In the corridor outside his room, she shoves him up against the wall and cleans the blood from his lips, takes his ass in her hands, grinds her hips into his.

She plies his ear with tongue and teeth and his eyes roll back in his head and his hips surge forward into hers and for just this moment he is entirely helpless, at her command, his breathing ragged, his head tipped back, mouth open.

They hit three more apartments.

He can't make it all the way home.

He pulls her into this little off-shoot that branches off to the side of the main corridor, some unused service hall or something, she isn't sure, but they have used it before, and so when he shoves her roughly up the wall, fist in her hair, teeth at her throat, she squeezes her legs around his waist and digs her fingernails into his shoulders.

His fangs pierce her throat.

She arches against him.

He reaches down one-handed to undo his buckle, lets her down momentarily to unbutton her own pants and leave them in a puddle around her feet.

She leaves her panties on.

There is no foreplay: she is already wet, her panties soaked, and so she merely hitches one of her legs up around his waist and lifts her hips to meet him as he pulls down his jeans.

One thrust almost seats him; the second does it for sure, and now he begins to slide himself back and forth, the friction almost unbearable, his fingers crawling down between them to scissor her slick clit, his thumb brushing over the front of it as he pumps away inside her, still feeding at her neck.

She rips open his shoulder.

He untangles his hand from her panties, slides it up her shirt, thumbs her nipple, slips it back down between them, his hips still going, his teeth still in her, and there is this little ripple that curls her toes and unlatches her fangs from his shoulder, just a hint of what's to come, but it's enough to clench her around him, and now she feels him shudder, his hips hammering hard enough to bruise, and inside of her there is this hot little spurt, and oh _God _it feels so good, keep going, she's almost there-

He picks up her other leg, loops it up over his hip, and the angle is just right, his tip against her G-Spot, and just a little longer, God, just a little harder- she wants to feel this tomorrow morning-

She clenches so hard she cries out, the sensation sweeping all the way through her, and with his lips against her own he comes unraveled a second time, his eyes half-shut, his orgasm sticky down her thighs.

He leaves her smashed back against the wall for a moment, catching his breath, kissing the point of her sweaty collarbone.

* * *

He comes home to her with blood on his hands, occasionally metaphorical, often literal.

When one evening he is late and he does not call, she tries to bounce their recliner off his head.

She thought he was _dead_, how hard is it to just freaking _call_, do you know how long she has _sat here wondering_-

They screw each other so violently her fingernail marks take twenty minutes to heal.

* * *

She takes Bekah shopping in the Presidium on Level three, 'just to keep up appearances', and she comes home with a little red scrap some shopkeeper saw fit to call a nightgown, and she pushes him down into the recliner she tried only nights ago to bounce off his head, and she strips out of it with agonizing sluggishness.

He carries her to the bedroom in just her panties and flings her down on the bed.

He parts her knees with a smile.

He presses a kiss to the inside of each knee, works his way down either thigh, brushes his mouth across the crotch of her panties.

He slides them down her legs and off her ankles, kissing the instep of her delicate little foot.

"Oh my God," she gasps when his tongue finds her clit.

He sucks it into his mouth, rolls his tongue along the top of it, pulls away with a smile. "I love it when you call my name, sweetheart."

"Shut up, you egotistical- oh my _God_-"

He slides the tip of his tongue into her, flicks it up over her clit again, circles it back down to taste her once more.

She arches against him, fists his curls in her hands, begins to breathe in little desperate pants.

He licks her slowly, inside her one moment, out of her the next, his lips caressing, his tongue thrusting, her breathing picking up speed, her fingers tightening more-

He stops.

"Klaus-" she breathes, eyes flickering. "Klaus, don't you freaking _dare_-"

He crawls up over her, still in his jacket and his jeans, his smile mischievous, his eyebrows high, and then with a sudden blur of her hand she has him by the throat, and she slams him down against the bed and climbs astride him.

He could have stopped her, of course, but she has his ear in her teeth now and she knows exactly how to exploit this weak spot of his, how to suck it between her lips just far enough to scrape it with the corners of her teeth, how to bite just hard enough and roll her tongue along its edge just lightly enough-

He grasps her by the hips.

She rips one of the sleeves of his jacket, getting it off him.

His t-shirt she manages to remove intact, and then she works her way down his chest with her lips, all the way to the waistband of his trousers, one hand cupping him through his jeans, her fingers lightly rubbing the tip of him-

He flips her over.

She pushes him back.

They take off his jeans in a flurry, her hands undoing his button, his skimming them down his legs, their mouths open, teeth clicking, tongues vicious, Caroline grinding herself in a steady rhythm down against his boxers, he with his fingers curled round her hip, breaking skin-

She frees him with her eager little hands and then lowers herself down onto him, just partway and then up she goes again, her smile just as mischievous, her eyebrows just as high.

"Come on, now," he says hoarsely.

She is so bloody _slow_, her warmth enveloping just the tip of him before disappearing once more, his dick sliding along her clit, the friction intolerable, the speed excruciating- he wants to be inside of her _now_-

When he finally sinks all the way into her, they both stiffen, her hands finding his shoulder, her forehead slanting forward against his own.

And then she begins to rock.

Just a tiny seesaw of motion, everything tight and wet and warm around him, and how long he can last he is not sure, but it won't be long now he knows by the way she tightens up and she begins to rub herself more furiously against him-

"Caroline-"

She grabs his hands roughly in her own and clamps them down over her breasts, and when he doesn't squeeze hard enough, she presses her fingers down tight against his own, leaving them there, her hair swinging as she rides him, her nipples sliding against the pads of his fingers-

He feels a small pulse, and she throws her head back, her fingers spasming against his own-

She tightens around him, leans down to muffle her cries against his mouth, tightens again-

He comes inside her with a little gasp, arching up off the bed, this motion sending another wave through her, and now their lips part and she gasps his name, he whispers hers, and suddenly she is bucking harder against him, cursing, riding this wave for as long as it stretches on, his hands gripping her helplessly round the waist-

Love you, she murmurs sleepily when they have finished.

He has never gotten used to hearing it.

* * *

Tuesday, he doesn't come home at all.

* * *

"Yesterday morning General McDownen announced the capture of renowned vampire Niklaus Mikaelson, a member of the original family from which all vampires descend. We switch over now to Kelly Maleon who is on scene outside the Level Two detention center, where Mikaelson is currently being detained."

Kell Maleon does not finish her sentence.

She throws the smug little bitch into the wall as the cameraman scuttles for cover, his fear in a thick perfume all around him, and now she crouches down, and she looks straight into the camera with smile on her face and chill in her voice.

Here's the deal, General _McDownen_.

You've got her husband.

She wants him back.

It's that simple.

* * *

His execution is scheduled for the following Monday.

His wife is, understandably, livid.

It's going to be like that bloody disaster of 2093 all over again, that catastrophic party during which both the caterer and the florist botched their assignments and Caroline was halfway through persuading Bonnie Bennett's great-granddaughter to curse the next three generations of their families when he took her aside to remind her that this particular caterer produced the best French pastries he'd ever tasted outside of Paris, and would she bloody well _please _not scare this one off-

He waits inside his cell with elbows on his knees, fingers propped in a triangle beneath his chin.

She'll come for him.

She is married to a man who once slaughtered an entire village because he had nothing better to do, the women, the children, their brave warrior men with swords held aloft as they charged- an entire generation he drained, tossed aside, stomped uncaring beneath his boots.

And inside of him she found that little kernel of Niklaus the boy, and she towed it up out of the depths without once alerting his attention, and then she sprung it on him when he had at last persuaded himself that to watch her die was of no consequence to him.

What is one tiny human army to this woman?

* * *

She is not better or stronger or faster than them.

But she can reduce a grown man to tears with only her words, and with Elena the beloved beside her she earned that crown and she wore it with pride, and 144 years ago Klaus Mikaelson rolled into town without a heart and he left with a promise to earn her own.

So bring it on.

* * *

And here they are just a day later, his two favorite girls in their very own hardsuits.

They peel off their helmets to stand with smug grins before him, Caroline resplendent, Bekah glowing.

He pays a long visit to General McDownen in his private quarters.

Sit yourself back, mate, and enjoy the proceedings.

Truly you are in the hands of an artist.

* * *

The textbooks to the conqueror, but the narrative- that belongs to conquered.

This will not be the first city he has stolen out from underneath the noses of those who sweep in with superior force of arms, so sure of their mission, so certain of victory.


End file.
